House of Fallen Trees

by Gina Ranalli

  “That’s why it’s hard to get to, huh?”

  “That would be why, yep.”

  “Could be a benefit once we open the joint though,” Saul said. “If you want privacy, it’s definitely the place to be.”

  “Yeah,” Rory agreed. “You won’t find anywhere more private than in there.”

  “Sounds like the perfect writer’s retreat,” Karen said, voicing her earlier thoughts.

  She saw Rory look in the rearview mirror and exchange a glance with Saul. Then he said, “Well, when we’re all settled and open up, you’re more than welcome to come stay with us.”

  “Be quite a trek from New York, though,” Saul said.

  “Boston,” Rory told him. “She’s from Boston.”

  “Right. Boston. Hey, I was close. I got the coast right.”

  Rory looked at Karen briefly. “Everyone out here thinks the whole East Coast is New York. You’ll get used to it.” She laughed and reached for a water bottle for a sip. Saul had made sure each of them had received one before vacating his house.

  “That’s okay,” she said, recapping the bottle. “When people back East think of the West Coast, it’s pretty much just California they’re thinking of. California and earthquakes.”

  As they drove, the more woodsy their surroundings became. The houses and businesses became fewer until there were none visible from the road.

  Saul leaned forward, poking his head out from between the front seats. “Spooky, huh?” Karen nodded, watching the trees as they sped by. They seemed to grow taller and thicker the further they went, just as the day around them grew more gloomy, a thick white fog settling across the land.

  “The incline isn’t enough to notice,” Rory said, “But we’re climbing in elevation.”

  “Is it always like this?” she asked.

  “Only about nine months out of the year,” Rory replied in such a tone that Karen was unsure if he was joking or not.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Just be thankful it’s not raining,” Saul said. “Yet.”

  Karen knew the Northwest was known for its drenching winters, but she didn’t mind the rain as much as most people did. Most days she found it soothing and enjoyed writing while listening to the rain and wind pelting her windows and roof. She also liked going to sleep to the sound of rain, but she was uncertain of how she’d react to months upon months with no sunshine in sight. She supposed even the biggest rain lover might find it tedious and depressing after a while.

  “They say the Northwest has the highest suicide rate in the country,” Saul said.

  Rory groaned. “Don’t go telling her shit like that, Saul.” To Karen he said, “In case you haven’t noticed, Saul is a bit of a gloomy Gus.”

  “Hey, it’s a fact,” Saul said. “The world can be an ugly place, especially when people are involved.”

  Karen kept her mouth shut, uncertain of how to take that statement. Rory shook his head in dismay. It was clear he had heard it all before and was getting bored with it.

  They traveled in silence for several miles, the woods around them growing in density, the fog not dissipating in the slightest. After a long while, Saul spoke from the backseat again, his voice low. “You should tell her about the house, Rory.”

  Rory frowned, shifted in his seat, and said nothing.

  Karen silently counted to ten before asking, “What about the house?”

  Sighing, Rory leaned forward, clicked on the radio. He searched the airwaves for nearly a minute trying to find something that wasn’t static. Frustrated, he snapped if off again. “The house has a bit of an ugly history,” he said abruptly, waving his right hand dismissively. “Ancient history. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Unless you ask some of the locals,” Saul put in.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Rory’s eyes shot daggers into the backseat at his friend. He faced front again, his expression grim. “Yeah, some of the locals can be a little whacko sometimes.”

  “Whacko how?” Karen asked.

  “They believe in curses,” Saul said. “For starters. They never wanted anyone to buy that old house and they’ve been giving Rory a lot of shit for it. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to burn the place down, actually.”

  “They probably would,” Rory stated. “If they weren’t afraid the whole forest would go up with it.”

  “Most of them won’t even go up there.”

  “Well,” Karen said. “You said it was a long hike.”

  “These aren’t the kind of people who are afraid of long walks in the woods,” Rory said. “They just hate the house.”

  “Even though none of them are old enough to have even been alive when…when what happened, happened.” Saul was starting to sound a little spooked himself. “They just know the stories their grandparents told them.”

  Karen waited patiently to hear the stories, but both men had fallen silent. She chewed her lip for a while before blurting, “Well, what happened?”

  Rory cleared his throat and said, “Good job bringing this up, Saul. Appreciate it.”

  “Hey, I was just making conversation,” Saul replied.

  Karen said, “You guys are gonna make me run around this tiny town asking the locals about it? What, is it supposed to be haunted or something?”

  “Or something,” Rory said. “It’s the guy that built it back in 1866. He was…a little…how should I put this delicately?”

  “He was a sick bastard,” Saul jumped to the rescue. “Really fucked in the head.”

  “Well, that was delicate,” Rory groaned.

  Karen laughed. “Sick, huh? Like, how? Sacrificing virgins? Goats? Praying to the devil? Thinking he was the devil?”

  Rory glanced at her sideways.

  She shrugged. “Hey, I write fiction and I’ve seen a lot of horror movies.”

  “Well…” he replied, before trailing off.

  “Kind of,” Saul said. “I mean, something like that.”

  “A devil worshipper?” She couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice. “That’s all you got for me?”

  Neither of them responded as the Jeep approached a crossroads and Rory made a left turn.

  “It’s all nonsense,” he said at last. “Just a bunch of folks telling ghost stories to keep their kids from wandering into the woods to smoke weed or get laid or whatever it is that kids do these days.”

  “Drink beer,” Saul added helpfully.

  “Yeah, drink beer,” Rory repeated, turning his head towards Karen and nodding in agreement.

  She thought about this for a moment before responding. “But, Saul said they’re giving you a hard time for buying the place. That sounds like more than people just wanting to put a scare into their kids.”

  “I don’t know,” Rory said, sounding frustrated. “Maybe they think opening the B&B will give the kids a destination.”

  She nodded silently, but didn’t believe him. She knew there was more to the story than what Rory was telling but decided to let it go for now. She didn’t want to upset the guy and besides, she was only here to check out where her brother had been; nothing more. She had no real notion of actually estimating the value of the old house or anything like that. She couldn’t have cared less about Sean’s handwritten will, to the point where it never even occurred to her to ask to see it. All she wanted was to feel close to her brother one last night, put the nightmares to rest, if that was possible. See through his eyes if she could.

  It was strange, but sitting in this car with these two men, these virtual strangers, riding down an old road cut through a thick and rolling forest, it was the nearest she’d been to her brother in almost five years. And, she realized with some dismay, that it was the first time she really felt his absence, a vacant spot located somewhere in her chest, in her heart and in her mind.

  For the first time she actually missed the little shit. Missed him with a deep pounding ache that caused tears to spring unexpectedly to her eyes. She turned away from Rory, pretended to be fasci
nated by the passing trees.

  Sean, her mind screamed. Where the fuck are you?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They rolled into the town of Fallen Trees a little after noon, all three of them anxious to get out of the Jeep, stretch, and find a bathroom, which was their main reason for stopping in the town proper at all.

  Rory parked the Jeep in front of The Lantern and they walked inside single file, like weary time-travelers eager to find their way back home.

  The men were greeted with many hellos from bar patrons and a young pretty waitress Saul introduced as Nikki.

  Karen smiled politely, said “Hi, nice to meet you,” and then made a beeline for the restroom.

  When she came back out, the guys were seated at the bar and she was mildly annoyed to see that Saul now had a mug of beer in front of him. As she approached, he grinned at her and said, “All that driving makes a man thirsty.”

  “I can see that.”

  She slipped onto the stool beside him, putting herself between him and Rory, who, she was happy to note, was not drinking a beer, but talking in low tones to the bartender, an older guy with gray hair, dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt.

  “Well, Rory,” the bartender was saying, “You know that shipment of salmon was supposed to be here this morning. Come dinner time, you’re gonna have a lot of hungry folks wanting their fish and getting all the more cranky the longer they have to wait for it.”

  “I’ll call the distributor right away, Mike,” Rory assured the guy. “I don’t know why you didn’t leave a message on my cell about this.”

  “I tried,” the man insisted. “But it just kept saying you weren’t available. You know how I feel about those dang unreliable things.”

  “Mike hates technology,” Saul whispered into Karen’s ear and gave her a mischievous smile before taking a gulp of his beer.

  “You’re damn right Mike does,” Mike said loudly, turning to them. “I’m only sixty-six, Saul. I ain’t deaf yet.”

  Karen cracked up as Saul made a show of trying to hide behind her.

  “You can’t trust those gadgets,” Mike said to Karen, as if they’d been lifelong pals. “Mark my words, those things’ll let you down when you need ‘em most. A good old-fashioned solid telephone line you can actually touch. That’s what I like. None of this satellite bullshit.”

  “Okay, Mike,” Saul said. “We get the picture. No cell phones for you.”

  Mike scowled at him before returning his attention to Rory.

  “He thinks he’s Paul Bunyan,” Saul said, raising his voice so the whole bar could hear.

  Karen gazed around the place. There were two booths by the front plate-glass window and another two against the back wall. About three tables with chairs were set up in the middle of the room on the far side of a lone pool table and exactly six stools in front of the bar. “This is a pretty small place,” she said.

  “Yeah, but you should see it come six o’clock,” Saul said. “The whole frigging town shows up. Standing room only.”

  “And I take it they serve food?” She referred to the conversation Mike was having with Rory.

  “Mostly just burgers and potato salad. Occasionally something special will come in, like salmon or lamb or some shit. Place goes crazy on those nights. They’re like a bunch of rabid hungry dogs. Not that I’m one to insult dogs. You want a beer?”

  “Um…no.” She’d seriously had to think about it. A beer was sounding pretty good, but she didn’t want to stay here any longer than they had to. “I’d really just like to get to the house as soon as possible.”

  This statement caused a cloud to pass over Saul’s face and he made no reply, choosing instead to concentrate on the contents of his frosty mug.

  Karen took the time to study the people. There were about ten of them in all, a few seated at the bar, drinking, a few more shooting pool and two couples in the booths. They all looked vaguely the same as Mike the bartender. Flannel shirts, jeans, work boots. They looked like a hearty bunch, the kind of people used to hard work and hard winters, all pale-skinned as if they never saw the sun, and living up here, Karen supposed that was the truth. A good portion of the men sported heavy beards while the women wore haggard looks. Most of them were staring back at Karen with curiosity. Some stared with unmistakable suspicion, though she didn’t think it was her per se. She thought it was because she was with Rory and Saul. She got the distinct feeling they were outsiders here—tolerated, but probably not much more than that.

  The guys themselves seemed oblivious to the scrutinizing eyes. Most likely they were so used to it, it no longer fazed them.

  “Well,” Rory said, slipping off the stool. “I’d love to stay here and haggle with you all day, Mike, but we have places to be.”

  Mike’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going up there, aren’t you?”

  “We are,” Rory confirmed. “Drink down that brew, Saul. I want to get up there before four.”

  “What happens at four?” Karen asked. She was surprised when it was Mike who answered her.

  “Gets dark,” he said. “Dark as a damn womb up there.”

  Karen raised her eyebrows. “Well, that sounds pretty dark.”

  Mike remained grim as Saul drained the mug and slapped a five on the counter. “For you, my good man,” he said to Mike with an exaggerated British accent. “And all your kind hospitality.”

  The bartender grunted at him, scooped up the bill and then turned his back on them, pretending to take a sudden interest on the bottles lined up behind him.

  Back outside, Karen did her best to make her voice low and spooky. “Dark as a woooomb!” Saul laughed, but Rory remained serious, climbing into the driver’s seat without even cracking a smile. Karen assumed it was because he was irritated about the salmon delivery, or lack thereof.

  Inside the Jeep once more, she said, “Interesting crowd in there. I got the feeling they don’t care much for outsiders.”

  “They’re automatically leery of strangers,” Saul said as Rory started the engine and pulled out onto the road.

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  Saul shrugged. “Small town. They’re used to knowing everybody. It’s nothing personal.” Rory snapped the radio on and a strong male voice boomed out of the speakers. “…carcass.”

  Karen felt her blood turn to ice-water, her eyes widening, staring at the radio.

  The voice continued: “So, if anyone wants a nice fat venison steak, give old Mac Gershon a buzz and tell him to put you down for some. That buck was a big one.” The voice stopped talking and a second later Miles Davis oozed out into the air like a long swallow of fine, smoky whiskey.

  Rory opened his mouth to say something, glancing at Karen. Whatever he was about to say, he abruptly changed his mind when he saw her paper-white face. “Are you okay?”

  She continued to watch the radio as if waiting for it to sprout a hand and grab her knee.

  “Karen?” Rory said. He snapped his fingers in front of her face.

  She flinched, her eyes darting from the radio to Rory’s face. “That man on the radio…”

  Perplexed, he said, “Yeah, that’s Terry King. He’s the town DJ. What’s the matter?”

  She thought about it, thought about telling him about the dream, if that’s what it had been. The words on her computer screen. But in the end, she just shook her head and said, “Nothing. He just sounded familiar for a second.”

  Rory nodded, though his eyes remained concerned and he shot Saul a look via the rearview.

  It took them less than ten minutes to get to what appeared to Karen to be an old utility road that hadn’t been used in at least a decade. Rory turned onto the road, bumping over clumps of earth and stone before setting the tires into the twin ruts that made the actual road.

  Karen rubbed her face with both hands, suddenly drained and wondering just what the hell she was doing out here in Washington. She should be back home, working on the new book, drinking coffee during the day, wine at night. R
elishing her solitude and privacy, not having to be social with anyone. Living her perfect little hermit life instead of tooling around in the woods hoping to find a hint of who her lost brother might have been. What really happened to him…

  Then it occurred to her: This whole trip, this town and its people. There might actually be a story in here somewhere. Maybe not a novel; maybe just a short story, six or seven thousand words. But still…inspiration was everywhere. And she hadn’t even seen the house yet.

  Maybe, just maybe, this entire trip wouldn’t be a waste, even if she didn’t find a single thread of information about Sean. The whole haunted house angle could turn into something, she was sure. And ever since childhood, she’d loved a good haunted house tale and had wanted to try her hand at one. Why not now? It could be fun and she might even be able to get her publisher to foot the bill. She could say she was on a research trip.

  Forgetting all about the guy on the radio, she sat up straighter in her seat, began looking at the passing forest with new, writer’s eyes. Taking in as much as she could, trying to commit certain things to memory. A big boulder on the side of the road, a white spray-painted skull and cross-bones decorating its face. The impossible greenness of this new world, so unlike New England in autumn. The thick gabardine-gray of the sky, mostly blotted out by the overhanging pine branches, some of which had been sheared off in one storm or another and lay in the road, causing the Jeep to bump and lurch and jostle the passengers within. Lost in thought, she didn’t even notice as they approached a huge downed tree blocking the road.

  “Well, this is where the hike begins,” Rory said, jolting Karen out of her thoughts. Her mouth fell open when she saw the size of the fallen tree.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “It’s as wide as a school bus.”

  “Yeah,” Rory agreed. “And probably in the vicinity of five centuries old.”

  She gaped at him. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope,” Saul put in, climbing out of the Jeep. “She was probably the grand old madam of this forest until something fierce ate away her roots until she couldn’t hold on to the earth anymore.” His tone was one of sadness, as if he were talking about a much loved aunt who had succumbed to a devastating disease.